Chronicles of Our Lord & Master
by Forge2
Summary: The Master—the most evil and corrupt being in Time Lord history. These are his stories, his victories and defeats. From Delgado to Simm. Crossovers, AUs, and everything in between.
1. The Enmity of Ages

The Enmity of Ages

I.

They ran through golden fields and pastures of red grass down the slopes of Mount Perdition--two little boys laughing and playing beneath a burnt orange sky. They will remember that Gallifreyan summer for the rest of their lives, one with regret, and the other with scorn. These are their last days of innocence. They lie beneath a canopy of silver leaves and whisper excitedly about the universe of stars and time that will soon open before them. They make solemn childlike promises to see the stars together, to run through alien fields of strange green hues, and have glorious wonderful adventures. But as the afternoon wore on, their thoughts turned to darker matters: to their upcoming birthdays, to the Academy, and the mysterious Untempered Schism. So young. They hide their dread behind a false bravado, too caught up in themselves to notice the other's fear. As the orange sky darkens, the boys return to the manner and their waiting parents. Ahead of them lies the terrors of the Schism, a riverside confrontation with a bully, and a life of duty that will one day drive them both to rebellion. But all of that is yet to come. On this summer evening they still just children, but as they race home up the mountainside, their eyes glint dangerously. Even in those happy carefree days, neither of them liked to lose.

II.

They're called the Deca—the ten best and brightest of the next generation of Time Lords. Most of them will one day flee their home for the freedom of the stars, but not yet. Childlike dreams and hopes have been all but crushed by over a century of study and regimented duty. Their heads are full to bursting with temporal mechanics and transdimensional geometry. Sometimes late at night, the boy and his friend gather in some clandestine corner and take out their old tarnished dreams, but as the years go by they meet less and less. They've drifted apart these last few decades. One of the boys has matured into a studious and charming man. His teachers all expect great things from him. Some even speculate that with his ambition and drive, the boy could make president within his first millennium. The other boy is a different matter all together. Bursting with ideas and creativity, he lacks only the patience to apply himself. Yet despite this, or perhaps because of it, he is always the center of attention. Beneath his disapproving frown, even Borusa cannot help but smile. The first boy, for all his plaudits, feels the first stirrings of envy.

III.

Events occur much as their teachers predicted. The boy graduated with honors, the highest score in two thousand years, while his friend barely scrapped through on his second attempt. The boy took a prestigious post at the Science Council and may find himself on the High Council within a century or two. His friend finds work as a technician, a respectable if unambitious post. Yet he is happy. The boy attends his friend's wedding, calms him during the birth of his children and grandchildren. He is always welcome at his friend's house, but when the boy returns home from the happy bustle of his friend's family, he finds only empty lonely chambers and the treacherous envy grows in his hearts.

IV.

They escape at last into exile, for different reasons and in different ways. They hide their true names deep inside and take the monikers of their childhood imaginings: the Master and the Doctor, the Doctor and the Master. They travel the stars, explore the eternity of time and space, but nothing is quite as they imagined. The universe is a harsh but wondrous place and it shapes them. The Doctor travels, seldom alone, doing good wherever and whenever he can. The Master travels, always alone, seeking to rule and subjugate, least he himself be ruled or subjugated. They meet from time to time and they duel as the gentlemen they are. Although the fate of entire worlds might hang in the balance, they can never bring themselves to truly kill the other. No matter how many opportunities they have. When the dust of their battles has settled, they are both strangely pleased that the other has survived. There are deaths of course, collateral damage, but the Master has never cared about inferior life, and the Doctor can't bring himself to care as much as he should. This is a game they play, like their races as children or their debates as students. And the Doctor wins, the Doctor always wins.

V.

Hate. Burning fiery hate. No longer suave and charming, no longer the gentleman, the Master is reduced to a burnt skeleton, to a fiend kept alive by undying hate. Dreams of exploration and conquest give way to an all-consuming need to survive. He returns home in secret to have his revenge. He plots and schemes grappling with the only opponent who really matters. No more duels, no more finesse. It is no longer a game, but something far more serious, far more deadly. They meet less frequently, as the Master skulks in the shadows of time, searching desperately for a means of survival. As the Doctor parades through time, saving planets with a jelly baby and a smile, the Master waits patiently on Traken sowing discord and planting the seeds of evil. When at last they meet again, the Doctor does not recognize his foe until it is too late. Again the Doctor foils his enemy's schemes, but in the end he cannot stop the Master from getting what he really wants—a new body at last.

VI.

In many ways they have the same mind. The Master and the Doctor, the Doctor and the Master. Two sides of the same coin. Renewed and reinvigorated the Master pursues his foe, anticipates his every move. In a cold high place overlooking the universe the Master darkens the sky, condemning countless worlds to destruction while the Doctor watches helplessly. After all these centuries, the Master tastes victory. Not the victory he had planned, but victory nevertheless. He casts the Doctor down to his death. It's the end, but the moment has been prepared for.

Both renewed and restored, the Master and the Doctor resume their contest of old. From Castrovalva to primordial Earth, from Medieval Europe to the Death Zone they battled. The Master's plans grow ever more elaborate, ever more ridiculous, as if somewhere inside he cannot bring himself to truly kill the Doctor. Then on a planet of choking ash and fire, the Master burns to his death. The Doctor, the kind and heroic Doctor just watches. He could save his old friend. The controls are right behind, but he does nothing, even when the Master begs. You wouldn't do this to your own…but the Doctor does. He could never bring himself to kill his enemy, but this time he didn't have to. All he had to do was nothing, and suddenly he was free of his most persistent foe. But he should have remembered—the Master survives, somehow the Master always survives.

VII.

On a planet as old as the Universe, the Master stalks his prey. His mind and body are being eaten away, consumed by the Cheetah Virus. He and the Doctor fight once more—a psychological chess match that devolves at last into a vicious brawl. From the quite streets of Perivale to the dying Cheetah Planet they grappled, beating each other with they're bare hands and the bones of the dead. Almost a thousand years of enmity reduced its most primal level. An explosive combination, their battle rips a planet apart, but once again they live to fight another day.

After millennia of crime and villainy, the Master was finally caught and executed. His remains are to be taken home by the Doctor himself. Even in death the Doctor takes precautions. Even when the Master was disintegrated before his very eyes, the Doctor cannot wholly relax, and with good reason. For the Master had survived well beyond his final regeneration, and now he would survive death itself. In San Francisco, as one millennium ends and another begins, the Master emerges to claim a new body as his own. More a thug than anything else, he desperately tries to once again steal the Doctor's remaining lives. As they grapple, the Master falls into the Eye of Harmony itself. Seemingly a final death.

VIII.

The Time War came, terrible and great. The whole universe trembled and convulsed. Time itself was twisted and corrupted. Entire planets were torn apart and reconstituted to die again and again. At the heart of the maelstrom, the Time Lords felt the first inklings of fear. Through their ancient and mighty powers they resurrected the most evil and corrupt being their race had ever produced—the Master reborn. Who better than a devil to contend with hell? But even the Master, with all his vile genius, was appalled by the war. He ran so far, hide himself in the farthest reaches of time and space, and became human, became nice. And there at the end of the universe he lived for decades, helping people, trying desperately to give hope to the last of humankind. Until at last the Doctor came, and almost by accident the Master was reminded of his true self. No matter how the Doctor begged, the Master would not be deterred from unleashing the sound of the drums upon the universe.

The noise, the all-consuming noise, the drumbeat, the never-ending call to war. He couldn't help himself. For all his will, for all his mastery, he cold never resist the call. In the end he was still that little boy from long ago, lost and betrayed, and angry. The enmity of ages was never the Master and the Doctor. It was always the Master and the Lord President, the Master and Rassilon, the Master and the man who drove him mad. And so a thousand years of conflict ends with the Master saving his old enemy's life, with redemption of a sort, with death.

IX.

But the Master survives, the Master always survives.


	2. The Third Passenger

21

The Third Passenger or: How River Tam Learned 

the Importance of Not Opening Other People's Watches

She lay in bed, still as death, her mind all whirling gears and stray thoughts. A clockwork brain. A facsimile. Not a real girl. She used to fancy she was a ballerina, or maybe she really was a ballerina. Hard to keep track. Hard to remember which is imagined and which is real, which happened and which didn't, which was and which wasn't. Facts were slippery like wriggling eels. She remembers visiting the aquarium on Osiris when she was little. The fish sang pretty little songs. Or maybe that was the dream—fact reality, reality fact. Which is which?

Fact—the temperature in the cabin was precisely 63.4° Fahrenheit, 16.8° Celsius. Fact—Simon snores approximately every 3.28 seconds. Fact—the mattress is lumpy and likely older than she is, if she could only remember how old she actually was. Age was tricky when you're not a real girl. Fact—Serenity is a Midbulk Transport, standard radion-accelerator core, class code 03-K64-Firefly. Fact—she is…safe? Safe is relative. Safe is hurtling through space in a raggedy metal insect. 30% chance of asteroid impact. 15% chance of engine failure. 13% chance of Reaver activity. 10% chance of other dangers, the kind that comes in pairs. Two by two, two by two, two by—

Sometimes she dreams she's a spaceship, all iron bolts and welded metal. Or perhaps she's a spaceship dreaming she's a girl. Identity is a component part of self, and her self is fractured, lost. If she's not herself, then who is? A girl, a name, a River. A man is the sum of his memories, broken little girls even more so. She remembers sleeping, and screaming, and running. She remembers running so far, so fast. A leaf on the wind soaring at the speed of thought, or sinking. Lost girl or a girl lost? Semantics, semiotics, sounds. Just a little girl on a lumpy mattress in a raggedy spaceship waiting for a sleep that never comes, listening to the whir and hum of the insect's mechanical heart. Fact—insomnia is 1.41 times more common in women than men. There are sleepy drugs and sleepy words, but she doesn't want them. Never again! That she knows. Of that she is certain.

Fact—the Song is beautiful. There is no better song than it. There is no other song than it. It is the song of everything and it is wonderful. It took her a day to realize no one else could hear it. Blind and deaf to what's right in front of them. How could they not hear something so incredible, something so old, yet so new. It's everywhere. Serenity's halls echo and ring. It's hard to remember a time before she heard it. Perhaps there wasn't one, perhaps it was always there. Time is an artificial construction, a flaw in human conception. She yearns to be free from the tyranny of clocks and hours, minutes and seconds. But the song is so breathtaking that it can almost drown out all other thoughts. It is the song of the universe, of eternity. It is a song of fire and ice, of rage and the storm at the heart of the sun. But most of all, it is a song of drums.

Jayne doesn't like the new passenger. Jayne doesn't really like the old passengers either, but he's gotten used to them. River is right pretty to look at, even if she is bughouse crazy and can kill him with her brain. The Doc was a stuck up Shee-niou, but he knew his trade good and proper. A sawbones could be right useful in a tight spot, but the new passenger had a manner of oddness all his own. He wore the torn and tattered remnants of a rich man fallen on hard times, but that weren't what bothered Jayne. The 'verse was full to bursting with folks like that, specially since the War. The Border had had its rich folk same as the Core, and when the Alliance came, the rich had joined up to fight for what was theirs same as the rest, only there was a lot more that were theirs. And when the dust settled and the war was lost many of the rich found themselves with nothing but the clothes on their backs, if they were lucky. No, Jayne understood that. Couldn't conjure much in the way of sympathy, but he understood it. The old man, though, was something else. For all his kind eyes and twinkling smiles, he didn't sit right.

Now Jayne was never really known for his brains, and it's true he'd never had much schooling or the like, but he'd managed to earn a respectable living in a career not known for its longevity. He'd known folks with more learning in a pinky than Jayne had in his whole self, but most of them were dead now and Jayne wasn't. He might not have a way with words but he could track near anything that moved, and kill near anything he tracked. Most of all, he always knew when the other fella was gunning for him, and the new passenger was gunning for him. Well, maybe he weren't gunning for Jayne or anybody else in particular, but that old man wasn't a senile old fool, he was a hunter, like Jayne. Older and more civilized, but a hunter just the same.

"Thinking about our Mr. Yana?"

Jayne started and turned. One of these days Book was going to explain just how a preacher-man learned to sneak up on a merc. "Shepard," Jayne greeted. "Don't like him. What kind of go tsao de name is Yana, anyways?"

"Not a common one for sure, but Zoë and the Captain…"

"Mal! Mal goes all moon-brained over every browncoat he can find."

"That hasn't been my experience. Besides, Mal doesn't seem too keen on our new friend."

"What are you on about? They're up there right now laughing and telling war stories."

"Yes, but there's a difference between liking someone and respecting them."

"Huh?" Jayne asked.

"You ever hear tales about the knife man?"

"The knife man! Ta ma de Shepard, what kind of tales did they tell at that abbey of yours?"

Book ignored him. "They say that during the war, whenever the Browncoats caught a particularly stubborn prisoner, who wouldn't talk no matter no matter what they did, then they would send for the Knife Man. He was nice old gentleman, friendly with everyone. Then they'd send him in to the prisoner all alone with no surveillance, just a kindly old man with a suitcase full of knives. In about an hour or so he'd emerge smiling his kind shy smile and be on his way, but after that, the prisoner would sell his own mother just so long as he never had to see the Knife Man again."

"Wuh de ma! What you telling that tale for anyhow? Everyone knows the Knife Man died at Sturges."

"No reason," Book said innocently. "Just food for thought."

Kaylee watched with a fond smile, as the old man puttered around the engine room. For all his absentmindedness, he knew what he was looking at. He understood how the hundreds of parts fit together. He saw the same beauty she did Serenity's spinning mechanical heart.

"Ever flown in a Firefly before?" She asked. Her voice seemed to startle him out of a reverie.

"What was that, my dear," he said grimacing as he put a hand to his temples.

"I asked if—"

"—If I'd ever been up in a Firefly. Yes, yes I heard you. I just…" The old man shook his head as if to clear his mind. "Yes I have. A long time ago, before you were born." He smiled wryly. "Back when the Firefly Model One was top of the line in Midbulk transports."

"She still is," said Kaylee loyally.

"Only in our hearts, my dear. Only in our hearts." His eyes faded again, and a painful distracted look flickered across his face.

"Mr. Yana," Kaylee said. No response. "Mr. Yana," she repeated urgently. "Mr. Yana!" Finally he blinked, startled as his mind returned from whatever far off place it had wandered. He noted the worry on the young mechanic's face, and tried to smile confidently.

"Sorry, my dear. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Maybe Simon should take a look at you?"

"No!" Yana frowned. "There's no need to call the doctor. I assure you I'm perfectly fine. Now, I couldn't help noticing that you've rerouted the G-Line and jury-rigged a port regulator out of what looks like Gurtsler parts."

It was an obvious attempt to change the subject. He clearly was in no way 'perfectly fine', but his smile was contagious and his eyes were twinkling reassuringly. So Kaylee allowed herself to be swept away into a conversation about G-Lines and compression coils. She'd been right about him. The old man did know his engines. He even had a few tricks up his sleeve she'd never heard of.

"The engine room is a temple," he declared solemnly as he turned to leave. "A temple raised to the god of the engineer…or goddess." He grinned impishly.

"I like that," she said.

"I thought you might," he said then he was gone.

Alone in her temple, Kaylee went back to work, happily humming to herself. All thoughts of Yana's sudden ailment gone from her mind.

In one of the cabins, the girl who wasn't a girl sat in a corner rocking gently back and forth, back and forth. Her name could have been River but wasn't, or couldn't have been River but was. A subtle but distinct difference. A paradox, an error in the calculations. Someone, somewhere isn't making sense and the girl is afraid it might be her. But that doesn't matter. Not today any way. She had heard Simon talking to the Captain outside in hushed tones. "Today's a bad day," he'd said. Poor Simon—loving brother, caring doctor—he'd burn the sky and boil the sea for her. She knew that. He'd do anything if he thought it would help her, but how could he help if he didn't understand. Today wasn't a bad day. Today was a good day, one of the best.

They were still singing, whoever they were, still singing the song of creation. They sang with voices wondrous and strange that conjured in her mind images of a universe vast and limitless. She saw her little dreams—the girl dreaming she was a spaceship, the spaceship dreaming she was a girl—as the small petty and childish imaginings they were. The song filled her to bursting with an endless chorus of interchanging melodies woven into a harmony that passed beyond all hearing into the depths and heights of reality itself. She was a girl no longer, but rather every blade of grass that ever grew. She felt the age of rocks and the many and varied life of soil. She saw the birth of stars in their cloudy nursery, and their lonely deaths out in the black. She was the collision of galaxies and the turn of a hundred million planets. She was the solar wind on her back and the life cycle of a microbe. She was the paradox and the resolution. She was.

Slowly the vast chorus of voices began to coalesce. The interlocking melodies unified into a single great theme. She was a girl again, a broken girl of flesh and marrow. The words of the song which had seemed more alien than anything in the 'verse had changed somehow. Their meaning was just out of reach, but coming closer and closer. A repeated meme. A name. A river. She stood swaying, as though in a trance. The voices called to her, sang to her, sang her name.

"…River…"

Yana took and appreciative sip of his tea and sighed in content. "Thank you," he said. "It has been many years since I had a properly brewed cup of tea."

"Think nothing of it. It is an honor to share with someone who appreciates it as much as you." Inara smiled graciously.

"Yes, well in recent years my tastes have been rather more expensive than my means." He waved off her conciliatory expression. "No Ms. Serra I have no need of pity. It is the price one pays for choosing the loosing side." He took another sip savoring the aroma. "When I contacted Malcolm, I had not expected to find someone of your refinement…or politics."

"My politics?"

"Indeed," Yana said but did not elaborate.

"You are also more refined than many of Mal's other…associates."

"A benefit of choosing the loosing side. Before the independence movement started, I doubt a rancher's son such as Mal and person like me would have even met let alone conversated."

"You were wealthy?"

"I had estates," Yana frowned. "At least, I think I did. It's all a little fuzzy. Feels like lifetimes ago." He grimaced and clutched his forehead. "You're very good at this," he said suddenly catching Inara off guard.

"This?"

"Listening, asking the right questions in the right tone of voice, plying me with tea."

"I wasn't aware that I was…"

"Of course you were," Yana interrupted. "I've noticed over the years that Companions sometimes need to be reminded that they are not the only ones who can read body language."

Inara was gracefully apologetic. "I am sorry if I gave the impression that..."

Yana waved her away. "No, no. There's no need for that. You're just trying to protect your friends, and since your friends are my friends, I accept your questions in the spirit they were intended. Besides I don't often get to enjoy the company of a beautiful young woman, and as I said before, the tea really is very good." His smile was so contagious that Inara couldn't help returning it.

"Kaylee seems quite taken by you," she said. Her voice was somehow warmer and less formal. For the moment she was more Inara than the Companion. The old man made no sign he'd noticed the shift.

"Ah Kaylee, another beautiful young woman. I told her that the engine room is a temple raised to the god of the engineer. She seemed to appreciate the sentiment." His eyes glazed over suddenly and the same painful look as before fluttered distractedly across his face.

"Is it?" Inara asked.

"Hmm?" His mind was light years away. "Is it?" he mimicked absently. "Is it what?"

"The engine room," Inara said frowning.

"The engine room?" Suddenly Yana's eyes sharpened and he returned to himself. "Yes, the engine room is a temple because she makes it so. Any one with eyes can see the care and pride Kaylee takes in…in…" his voice faded away and he began to stare fixedly at the shuttle bulkhead. This time Inara was not able to rouse him so easily, and his grimaces of pain were far more pronounced.

"I think we should see the doctor," Inara suggested gently.

"No!" Yana's unexpected vehemence seemed to burst forth without conscious thought. "No doctor," he said but his voice was weaker now, and Inara was already starting to maneuver him gracefully towards the door his hands. "Can't you hear them," he mumbled so softly Inara could barely make out the words. "Why won't they just go away…"

Mal practically jumped out of his chair. "Goramn it! Zoë, you know better than to sneak up on a man unawares."

"I wasn't sneaking, sir. I was walking."

"What you call walking, plain ordinary folk call sneaking."

"Yes sir. It won't happen again," Zoë said with a straight face. Mal glared at her, but could find not a hint of laughter, not even the slightest hint of amusement.

"Well…see that it don't," he muttered. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Wash says he's picking up a lot of Alliance chatter on the Cortex. Reckons we should take the long way round."

"I see." Mal frowned. "And you felt a powerful urge to come and tell me this your own self?"

"No sir. It's about Yana."

"Yana? The old man ain't causing any trouble is he?"

"Not exactly…"

"But?"

Zoë frowned. "I'm not sure. It's just…there's something not right."

"You're not getting a feeling are you? It's just that the last time you had yourself a powerful feeling, you married the fella." At Zoë's glare, Mal raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just sayin'."

"He's keeping secrets," said Zoë.

"Now that's a truth," Mal agreed. "I can't say I care much for secrets, but most days it feels like everyone on this boat's got secrets, and I reckon Yana's got himself all manner of secrets I'd be more comfortable not knowing. Besides, Kaylee thinks he's shiny."

"Kaylee thinks everyone's shiny."

"No," Mal said, thinking of a certain chiang-bao hoe-tze duh bounty hunter. "Not everyone."

"Sorry, sir. I'll just feel a lot better when he's dirtside."

"And I'll feel a lot better when we don't owe him any more favors. Man's a browncoat through and through, and you can't fault a man for doing his duty, but there was always something a mite creepy about him."

"It was the kindness, sir."

"The kindness."

"No one who had his job has any right acting so kind. Makes a person wonder."

"Well," said Simon. "I can't find anything physically wrong." He'd been examining Yana for the better part of an hour. "In fact, you seem to be in remarkably good health for…"

"For someone my age," Yana finished with a wry smile waving aside Simon's apologies. "No, no," he said tiredly. "I know I'm an old man, and Lord knows I can feel it."

"You're not all that old," Simon said. "Some people in the Core can live into their mid hundreds."

"But we're not in the Core."

"No," Simon agreed. "No we're not. Still there must be some reason for your…episode. Inara said you seemed to be in pain."

"Only some minor discomfort," Yana said trying to smile reassuringly. "It's really nothing, just a funny turn."

"Kaylee saw it happen too," Simon said pointing at the young mechanic. She'd slipped into the infirmary a few minutes before. "That's two 'funny turns' within a few hours. That doesn't sound like nothing."

"You can tell Simon," Kaylee said. "He's a proper doctor, real good at fixin' people up nice and shiny."

Yana's smile was genuine this time, partly because Kaylee's cheerfulness was infectious, but mostly because she and Simon made an amusing picture as they tried to hide their blushing. He glanced over at Inara, who was framed in the doorway with a knowing look in her eyes. Yana's amusement faded quickly though, like it always did. "Nothing personal," he said. "But I've never much care for doctors. Not really sure why…I'm sure I had a reason once but…now I…I…" He blinked. "What was I saying?"

"You were going to tell me about your 'funny turns'," Simon said. He had a look in his eye that said Yana wasn't going to get out of this one. Maybe that was why he didn't like doctors—they were always trying to trap him.

Yana was silent for a long time, until the others began to wonder if he was ever going to speak. Finally he began to speak. His voice seemed to come from far away. "It's noise, Doctor. Constant noise inside my head."

"What kind of noise?"

"It's…drumming…constant drumming inside my head. A rhythm of four…" Yana began to absently tap the bed—four staccato beats. Tap, tap, tap, TAP. Tap, tap, tap, TAP. "…coming closer and closer. The never-stopping, never-fading, never-ending drumbeat." Tap, tap, tap, TAP.

"How long have you heard it?"

"All my life." Yana shook himself, blinking rapidly. He stared down curiously at his hands, as if he'd never seen them before.

"Perhaps it's something neurological," Simon offered. "But I should have been able to detect traces."

"Don't bother," Yana said. "I'm grateful, but none of your predecessors ever found the answer. I've lived with the drums this long. I can live with them a little while longer." He stared directly into Simon's eyes. "There is nothing you can do."

"…River…"

The song called to her, compelled her to follow. The girl felt as though she was floating, drifting through Serenity's corridors. Her feet seemed barely to touch the ground. Her body was not her own, and her mind was full of the song, of its siren call.

"…River…"

The girl knew who she was. For the first time in an eternity of confusion and paradox, the girl was a girl. There were no calculations, no errors, no doubt. River was River. She hadn't felt like River in a very long, but now certainty flowed through her veins. She was a real girl, solid through. Blood and marrow, and bone, and flesh, and fleshiness. Had she always been this real and just not noticed, or was this something new and shiny. A proper ladylike.

"…River…"

She knew who she was because the song told her. It was no longer the universe, but the song of her, of her self. It sang of childish things—of painted wings and sealing wax, of dinosaurs and dying swans, of Osiris, of home, of mother and father, and Simon. For the moment at least, she was whole and complete, almost normal. She didn't notice when she reached Yana's quarters, or when her hands, as if of their own volition, began to pick the lock. She was too caught up in the euphoria of knowing, of being, of…

"…River…"

She entered the cabin twirling and spinning around. The song was stronger here, closer. It filled her mind with its wonder, and joy, and yearning. "Where is it?" She muttered to herself. "Where is it?" A strange frustrated panic seemed to grip her. Pacing the room she began to tear at the walls, hurling chairs and ripping up the mattress. "Where is it?" she demanded, as if bulkheads could answer.

"…River…" came the song with a voice at once infuriatingly familiar and utterly alien. "Come to me," the voice said. There was something soothing and safe about that voice. "Come to me, human child. Come to me."

She glanced around the cabin wildly, searching, desperate, hopeful. And there it was. Sitting on the table innocently. Such a small insignificant thing, an old pocket watch anachronistic and rusted with age. But River knew, knew with every fiber of her being that the tiny little watch was the source. She reached out, her hand trembling only slightly, and held the watch warm in the palm of her hand. It felt right, like it belonged, like it wanted to be held. She rang her finger of the etchings, the strange clockwork writing. It was alive, more alive than anything River had ever met, and it was waiting.

"What must I do?" she asked.

"Open the watch," came the answer. "Open the watch!" And she did.

Book was alone when Yana found him.

"Mind if I join you," Yana asked.

"Not at all," Book said looking up from his reading. Yana sat down gratefully.

"That doctor of yours keeps lecturing me about various neurological conditions. I think he's trying to be subtle."

"He's very capable."

"I don't doubt it," said Yana. "And extremely loyal."

Book looked up sharply. "You know who he is don't you?"

"Young core-trained doctor and his sister flying around the 'verse in a old bucket of bolts. It wasn't that hard to work out."

"Are you going to turn them in?"

"I'm a browncoat," Yana said with pride. "I fought for the Independents. Who did you fight for?"

"Shepard's don't fight in wars."

"True, but you're not a Shepard." They met each other's gaze for a long moment, two almost identical stares. Then, Book calmly and precisely marked his passage before setting his book aside.

"What do you want?"

"To ask a question."

"What question?"

Yana paused. "Do you believe in evil?"

"What kind of question is that?" Book asked.

"A question for a Shepard."

Book could see that the other man was serious. This wasn't a joke, or a game, or even a trap. Yana wanted an answer. "I…well I…I believe in sin. I believe that people have done terrible things to each other, and that…"

"No," Yana interrupted sharply. "I'm talking about evil, pure undiluted evil, as a concept. Do you believe it exists?"

Book frowned. "I'm not sure I understand."

"When I was a younger man," Yana sighed, "my neighbor had a dog. I don't recall the breed any more, but that is not important. What is important is that I was very fond of that dog. But one day, out of nowhere, a thought occurred to me and I began to wonder. I began to wonder what it would be like to torture that poor creature, to hear its yelps of pain, to watch the life drain from its useless body, and see the look on my neighbor's face when he saw what had happened to his wretched dog." Yana took a deep steadying breath. "But that thought was not my own. It arrived in my mind fully formed and utterly alien. So I pushed it aside, but I began to have more of these thoughts. I saw a mother with her baby, and I thought about holding that little person gently in my arms and casually dropping it. Watching as its little head smashed to the ground blood spilling everywhere. But again, that thought was not mine. I could never imagine such a thing, except I had, and the more I imagined these things, the louder the drums became.

Then came the war and they needed someone to…question the prisoners. I was always kind and polite, but I found that I already knew how to do it, as if by instinct. I knew how to make them scream, how to make them talk, and they always talked. I was doing my duty," Yana laughed bitterly. "I never enjoyed it, not for a single moment, but part of me desperately wanted to."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I know who you are, Shepard. I know what you've done. So tell me, do you believe in evil?"

Book was silent. "I believe," he started at last. "I believe in a special hell reserved for people like you and me," me paused, "and people who talk at the theater."

Yana nodded sagely. "Yeah," he agreed. "I hate people who do that."

"It's very rude," said Book. They understood each other perfectly.

River stood in the tattered remains of the old man's cabin, her face awash in an ethereal glow emanating from the watch, a warm golden light that caressed her face. In her mind's eye she saw a childhood of rules and duty not unlike her own. She saw a child taken from his family and sent to the Academy, a place of cruelty and learning. She saw a small boy forced to stare into the raw power of time and space, and the men he would grow into, men of urbane intelligence and charm. She saw his power and most importantly, his understanding.

"River Tam," came the voice she now recognized as Yana's, only stronger and more confidant. "I have waited many years for someone like you, someone with the right series of synaptic engrams. I have waited alone in the dark, unable to touch or feel, unable to be myself, unable to be whole. You know what it's like don't you, River Tam? To be broken? To be lost?"

"Yes," River said holding back a sob.

"We have endured much, you and I, but our trial are ending. You can be my salvation, and I can be yours. I can bring order to the chaos of your mind, make you a real girl again. You would like that, would you not?"

"Oh yes…"

"But I would require something in return."

"Anything," said River.

"Anything?" replied the voice, its benevolent tone slipped for a moment revealing a note of wild anticipation. River should have been worried, but she wasn't, not any more. The voice had sounded too kind, the song too beautiful, and her desire to be whole was too strong.

"Yes," she agreed. "Anything."

"Then, I only need two things: your submission and your obedience to my will."

"I…I…"

She blinked. Something wasn't right. Something didn't fit. There was an error in someone's calculations, but it seemed like a fair trade, and the voice had seemed so kind.

"I…I…I obey…"

"Dinosaurs of the swamp," said the T-Rex. "Please attend carefully. The choice for you all is simple: a continued existence under my guidance or total annihilation."

"I would rather die than serve you," said the stegosaurus.

"That can be arranged," replied the T-Rex before attacking suddenly. "Grrr! Argh!"

"Oh mother of god…" cried the stegosaurus.

"Grrr!" replied the T-Rex mercilessly.

"…and all her wacky nephews!"

"Wash," came a voice in the background, but neither of the dinosaurs paid any heed. "Wash," the voice repeated, but still no response. The T-Rex's growling drowned out all other sounds. "Wash!"

"Whoa!" The dinosaurs went flying in opposite directions. "Damn it Mal, you could have given me a heart attack. I'm too young to die," said Wash.

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your dinosaur's plans for world domination." Mal rolled his eyes. "Don't you have any other hobbies you could work on?"

"I can juggle geese."

"So I've been told. Let's stick with the dinosaurs for now. Anything on the scanners?"

"Not a peep. Should be smooth flying the rest of the way."

"Now that's a piece of news worth celebrating. We got cargo. We got a passenger, and the little albatross seems to have quieted down a mite. It's getting damn near restful, which can mean only one thing."

"What's that, Mal?"

"We're all in big trouble."

The intercom flickered to life. "I think you should get down here, Mal," came Book's voice. "River's acting up again."

"See," said Mal. "Trouble.

The dining room was in chaos. Jayne was sprawled on the floor trying desperately to pretend he hadn't been beat by a ninety-pound girl. Kaylee hovered over him helplessly. Simon and Book were speaking in soft soothing voices trying to calm River down, but she wasn't listening. She was standing in front of Yana offering him the watch insistently.

"You have to take it," she said. "You have to set him free!"

"Mei-mei," said Simon. "I think you should come with me…"

"No! No more drugs, no more sleeping. He's going to fix me. He promised."

"I don't understand," said Simon. "Who promised?"

"He did. He promised to make everything better. So you have to take it," she repeated to an increasingly bewildered Yana. "You have to set him free!"

"Who…what," Yana frowned. "Is that my watch?"

"River," said Book. "Did you steal this man's watch?"

"You need to give it back," said Simon. River shot him a look, as if to say 'what does it look like I'm doing?' Suddenly she reached out and forced the watch into its owner's hand. That was the moment everything changed.

He could feel it, pulsing in his hand. No longer waiting but expectant, ready. It felt right, as if a part of him, that he hadn't known was missing, had slotted back into place.

"The drums," came a voice echoing through him, his voice yet different. He glanced around wildly. No one else seemed to have heard, no one else but River. "The drums," the voice repeated. "The never ending drumbeat. Open me you human fool. Open the light, summon me and receive my majesty!" The old man paused, but only for a second. His fingers moved, as if of their own accord. The watch sprung open and there was light, burning, seething, unearthly light.

"What in the specter of hell is going on?" demanded Mal, as he strode in, gun drawn with Zoë right behind him.

"He's coming," answered River reverently. "He's here!"

She was right. The cascade of light had faded, leaving just an old man holding a broken watch. Except, he had changed. He stood taller and his eyes had darkened, burning with a mocking intelligence.

"It's quite simple, Captain," the old man said, as River took an unfamiliar position by his side.

"I am the Master and you will obey me…or die."

The End


End file.
